Insanity Plague
by char0lastra
Summary: Ever since Prowl and Jazz began to openly court one another, things aboard the Ark have just been getting stranger and stranger, and Bumblebee is beginning to wonder if he's the only one that sees it. G1.
1. Chapter 1

_You know that fic you come up with in a dream, and in your dream, it's completely epic? It's long, and has a rich vocabulary and great dialog; it's well written, and everyone is in character, and it's so great you almost can't bring yourself to type it out, for fear of not doing it justice?_

_ This is not that fic.  
><em>

_*Incorrect spelling and errors are the result of my own asshattery. You aren't crazy, the ending was edited. Just roll with it. :)  
><em>

* * *

><p>It was a typical day at the <em>Ark.<em> Bumblebee and Spike were lounging in front of a large monitor, both paying rapt attention to a program while Spike vividly explained slang and cultural references that made no sense to his alien friend. They were alone, and things were relatively quiet; something both nice and surprising.

Watching television—an activity Bumblebee understood to be entertaining and sometimes mindless—was a favorite past time among the Autobots, although it had potential to be very stressful, and even a little dangerous; mostly because no one could agree on what to watch.

Every now and then a fight would break out and evolve into shoving and name-calling, but Bumblebee simply couldn't react as seriously as some of the other bots (Cliffjumper and Mirage.), it was just TV.

"You really didn't have TV back on Cybertron?" Spike asked. He and Bumblebee were sitting on the floor; Spike cross-legged, Bumblebee straight-legged and leaning back on his hands.

"Not like you this," he explained. "Things broadcasted on some of the monitors we didn't use, but were similar to your News channels. We just didn't have any use for TV. I like it, but I guess you can't miss what you never had." he shrugged.

"Yeah, it's okay. My dad doesn't really let me watch a whole lot of it."

They both looked away from the monitor when they heard a soft hiss; in stepped Prowl, his usual, stoic self; maybe a little flustered.

"Hey Prowl," Spike greeted, waving.

Prowl's shoulders wavered somewhat, as though he couldn't make up his mind whether to enter or leave. He stayed put, and greeted them both with a slight nod. "Spike, Bumblebee." He walked across the room, paying interest to a random console. Not unusual for him. What was unusual, however, was the way he leaned into the console with his hands, his shoulders hunched. Prowl never deviated from prim and proper, not even in private, probably, but then again, Prowl hadn't been acting himself lately.

Spike seemed to take notice, as well. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Prowl replied with a question of his own. "Why are you sitting on the ground?"

"This is how everyone on Earth watches TV," Bumblebee said offhandedly. He smiled. Spike was smiling, too, as though he and Bumblebee were privy to some secret he was not; something grand and exciting. "Everyone Spike's age, anyway."

Spike nodded. "Just teaching Bumblebee more about Earth. Next is chewing gum."

"I see," said Prowl.

Bumblebee shared a concerned look with one another. Aside from the mild physical-freedom, Prowl seemed to be all right. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

It took Bumblebee every ounce of strength he had not to hang his head and groan. He recognised that tone, soft and naive, nothing like what Prowl was supposed to sound like—brutal, curt; an undertone of constant confidence.

"Except...Jazz and I are fighting again."

Ever since those two had gotten together, Prowl had changed. Actually, the whole Ark seemed to be taking a rapid descent into madness ever since they had gone public. It was subtle, at first, but growing worrisome. Bumblebee didn't understand it, and brought it to Optimus' attention, who simply waved it off.

Spike joined his two friends. "Again? What about?"

Prowls lower lip wobbled pathetically. "He wants to conceive."

"What?" Bumbebee exclaimed. "You've got to be kidding!" he was far from a prude, and had witnessed several mechs pair off and court one another before, Prowl and Jazz, however...their approach was different, awkward to watch; sort of like a ship on a head-on collision with the ground—terrifying, and yet at the same time strangely captivating. "You two have only been courting for a few orbital cycles!"

Spike suddenly looked very thoughtful. "Guys? How exactly-?"

This time, Bumblebee did groan. "Oh, no. No, no. Hold it, Spike. We tell you that, and Sparkplug might take us apart. Bolt by bolt."

Spike waved his hand. "Aw, you know he wouldn't. Besides, you guys aren't even human. What's the big deal?"

"What about Ratchet? No thanks! I like my dental plates where they are."

Prowl agreed quietly, a brief lapse into normality that was over before it began. "I'm just so torn. I love Jazz, and he wants a sparking so much. He says it would be the ultimate demonstration of our love—"

"_Please_," Bumblebee said beneath his breath. Clearly, Prowl wasn't the only one who needed a tune up.

"Wouldn't it be kind of dumb to have a little kid around, considering all the fighting you guys do?" Spike asked with all the subtly of a brick. "They'd probably be really distracting, right? And get kidnapped all the time, too."

Bumblebee, unable to articulate a reply, just stared at the teenager.

"No!" Prowl snapped, having no issue finding his voice. "It would be magical!"

Spike held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, sorry! I didn't even think you'd want a—uh, sparkling."

As if this conversation wasn't already weird enough, Prowl shamelessly draped himself across the console. "That's just it: I'm not sure if I do or not."

Bumblebee, who wasn't sure how to react, was a little irritated that Spike was paying less attention to Prowl, and more attention to his shoes.

"...So does that mean you guys are...?"

"Spike!" Bumblebee's voice held a warning tone.

"Sorry!"

"If I'm not completely willing to devote myself to Jazz, to do everything in my power to make him happy...then perhaps..." Prowl's head shot up. He lifted himself off the console and asked, "do you think Jazz and I were meant to be together?"

Bumblebee blurted out, "I didn't think you two even had much in common?"

"How dare you?"

Quicker than Bumblebee could even register, Prowl was towering over him like a deadly tidal wave ready to smash him into the rocks.

He's going to hit me, was Bumblebee's first thought, followed by: well, that's kind of a step in the right direction.

Spike waved his arms in alarm, as there wasn't much else he could do. "Whoa, calm down! You were meant to be! You were meant to be!"

Prowl frowned, his demeanor suddenly less intimidating than it had been. He looked confused, and genuinely sorry. It was like a switch had been flipped. He began backing away. "I don't know what came over me. Please, excuse me."

He rushed out the door and down the hall, leaving Bumblebee and Spike staring after him; the low murmur of the television in the background.

"Wow, he's pretty upset, huh?"

"More like completely insane."

"Why, because he doesn't know what he wants?"

"No, because he's acting completely insane."

Spike gazed at him for a long moment. He slapped Bumblebee on the side of the leg in a friendly gesture, smiling. "Don't worry, Bumblebee. I'm sure it's nothing."

Bumblebee stared at his human friend. "Have you _met_ Prowl?" he asked, just as the door slid open again. This time, it was Red Alert who poked his head in.

"Inferno?" he called, and then spotted them. "Hey, have either of you seen Inferno?"

Spike shook his head. "Sorry."

Red Alert, looking dismal, and a little confused, frowned. "Really? I've been looking for him all day."

"He might be out with Optimus?" Bumblebee suggested. "Or Wheeljack? Did you check with him?"

"No, I was on my way there right now and decided to check in here. Well, thanks."

"Hey, Spike," Bumblebee said when they were alone again. "I'm gonna go find Ratchet. Wanna come?"

The boy nodded. "Sure."

"Great, let's go."

The two of them stepped out into the hall.

He needed to find Ratchet before he blew a gasket. Something was wrong, even if no one realised it, and he wras going to get down to the bottom of it, even if it killed him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ratchet," said Bumblebee, walking alongside Spike as they entered the medical bay. "Are you busy?"

Ratchet, elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity, turned to look at them. "Oh, not really," he replied with surprising calm. "Almost through. Should be done in a moment. Hello, Spike."

Spike nodded hello. "What happened to _him?_"

Suddenly the someone—Sunstreaker, as it turned out—sat up; Ratchet vented a deep sigh and withdrew his hands; he cocked his head, looking irate, as if to say: _now you've done it. Good going._ "_I'll_ tell you what happened—those lousy, rotten Decepticeeps got the drop on me! Great army, all right. Attacking when someone isn't looking!"

"You act surprised," Bumblebee pointed out, smirking.

"Isn't it an unwritten law or something to lay off a guy with a fresh wax or new paint job?"

"Oh, please," Ratchet grumbled, approaching Sunstreaker again. "This is a war. Lie back down."

Spike agreed. "It's not a bad idea, but I doubt they'd actually follow through."

Sunstreaker scowled, shifting away from Ratchet. "Probably not."

Ratchet swept his hand between the chatterbots. "May I continue?" he set a hand on Sunstreaker's chest and pushed him back on the berth. He only just picked up his wrench when the bot shot up again. "Not this time, you don't!" he pressed an elbow into Sunstreaker's shoulder. Hard.

"And would you believe Sideswipe drove away with everything intact?" Even Ratchet's roughness wasn't enough to quiet the annoyed bot. It was markedly harder to rant with one hand in your chest and the other jammed into your shoulder plate, but he managed. "Not a scratch on him! And here_ I_ am, in need of _another_ wax job. He couldn't make sure_ he_ was the one getting banged up back there? Some brother."

Everyone knew he wasn't _really_ upset with Sideswipe; he always was a little explosive after a scratch or ding. Or worse, such as in this case. Bumblebee guessed it couldn't be easy being so vain; sort of like having your hands welded together. You'd be constantly inconvenienced, and maybe even desire special treatment. When it came down to it, though, even though Sunstreaker could be brash, conceited, and difficult to get along with, he was a valued asset to their team, and extremely loyal.

"Gee, Sunstreaker," was all Spike managed to say; that about summed it up. "I'm glad you're all right."

"_All right?_" he scoffed. "I ripped his—" Ratchet dug his elbow in even harder, making him wince. "Let's just say he won't walk back to the Decepticon base. Or drive. _Or go back at all._" His voice was grim, but also prideful.

Eventually he was back on his feet, thanking Ratchet for a job well done in his own way, which was mainly complaining: _couldn't he have been a little more gentle? And if he found so much as a dent, he'd be back, bet your nuts and bolts._ Spike and Bumblebee waved goodbye and watched him leave, then looked back to Ratchet, who was wiping first his wrench (and not his hands, Bumblebee noticed), with a greasy rag. He kept on wiping it, too, even after the grease was gone. Polishing, almost. Well, at least he wasn't brandishing it.

"What'd you two want?"

"Oh, right...I wanted to talk to you about something."

He nodded. "Go ahead."

"You haven't noticed anything...weird, have you?"

He looked skeptical, and maybe a little bit amused. "Define weird?" he set the wrench down and finally wiped his hands clean, muttering. "Well let's see here...Prowl's had his foot jammed up my tailpipe the last couple of days." He shook his head, waved his hand. "Something to do with Jazz. I tell you, _those_ two are really starting to grind my gears."

"Yeah!" Spike said. "He just told us in the rec. room that Jazz wants a ki—uh, a sparkling," he finished, sending an unsure glance to Bumblebee.

"You're joking," was all Ratchet said. He didn't even frown.

"You mean neither of them has talked to you about it?" Spike looked shocked. "He said they'd been arguing about it."

Bumblebee verified that it was indeed true. "He was practically laying on one of the consoles! And he did this thing with his mouth—egh. The point is, he's hasn't been acting like himself for a while now."

"I could've told you that." Ratchet snorted. "I've checked him over, though; he's fine. Jazz, too. I thought maybe he developed a personality glitch or something, but I guess bots change..." he trailed off. It was something everyone said, even the humans; that people changed. Bumblebee supposed it could be true for certain people, but not someone like Prowl. It just didn't make any sense.

Spike said, "Bumblebee says he isn't the only one."

"Oh?" the CMO's voice was intrigued. "Well, you seem fine to me Bumblebee, and Sunstreaker didn't seem any different than usual."

"Prowl and Jazz are one thing, but the others...they're acting odd, Ratchet, I'm telling you. I just can't put my finger on it."

Ratchet casually shrugged. "If you say so. I'll keep my optics peeled, if it'll make you feel any better."

"It would, thanks."

"I've got some work to do," Ratchet announced, shooing them off. "Run along."

Exchanging a curious glance with Spike, Bumblebee did as he was told. He desperately wanted to poke his head back in and catch Ratchet in the act of polishing that damn wrench again.

He was almost positive he was.

* * *

><p>There was no sugar coating it, no way around it: Inferno hated him. After all, he'd just went off somewhere without telling him—without taking him. Without even <em>offering<em>. They weren't bonded, but it just didn't seem right. Inferno was _his._

Red Alert stared at the floor in disbelief as he walked. It didn't matter where he was or where he ended up, what was important was that he kept moving. He feared what could happen if he stopped.

What if the reason he hadn't seen him all day was that he was dead, and no one had had the spark to tell him? _Poor old Red Alert, all alone with no one to care for him._ He felt his systems surge, his insides felt odd; and then he felt a flare of anger hit his processor.

No, that...that was crazy talk, that wasn't him talking. Inferno was not _his_—he shook his head, tried to think clearly—and could go where he wanted, _do_ what he wanted. The strange, possessive thoughts began to wane, but just barely. It wasn't Red Alert's job to keep tabs on him; he was a grown mech, and more than able to fend for himself. He had interests that didn't involve Red Alert at all, and that was perfectly acceptable.

...Still, he _would_ feel better knowing where he was, at least.

It took him a second to realise where he was, and how far from Teletraan 1 he was. As luck would have it, he only had to back-track it a couple feet, and so he did. Even better, no one was around. Good. At least this way, he thought, approaching Teletraan 1, he wouldn't have to hide what he was doing. They checked on things all the time, he told himself. He wasn't doing anything wrong.

"There they are."

Inferno was, as Bumblebee predicted earlier, with Optimus. They were heading back, by the looks of it. He felt instantly better, very much relieved. He smiled, even, thinking how ridiculous he had been before. Must have been the glitch talking, he thought.

He decided he had done enough worrying for the day ("would be nice, wouldn't it?"), and would for his quarters to rest, and maybe recharge. He was obviously in need of one, judging from the panicked and somewhat possessive thoughts from before. The other mechs could go slightly longer without, but due to the (sometimes overwhelming) amount of stress he put up with (or created), he tended to need a quick recharge every so often.

"Thanks, Teletraan. I appreciate the help."

Nodding his thanks, he stepped out into the hall, and took off for his private quarters.

He could wait until later to see Inferno. No big deal.


End file.
